Page 7 of Stalker's Toy

Heavy.

Lingering three seconds past professional.

My trapezius muscle twitches beneath his touch.

Through my threadbare sweater, I count the ridges of his fingerprints.

“You should be proud.” His voice drops half an octave. “Most students take years to develop this level of?—”

“I need to catch the bus.” I pivot sideways, his hand slipping to the back of my chair.

The movement sends charcoal dust swirling between us.

His wedding band glints dully under fluorescent lights—wide platinum band, no engraving.

Francisco’s text buzzes in my pocket as I shoulder my bag.

South entrance. Black railings.

The mansion's address winks from my lock screen.

Professor Hastings steps into my retreat path. “Perhaps we could discuss your technique over coffee? The Royal Academy’s new Rothko exhibit?—”

“Deadline for the Whitworth Prize’s next week.” I adjust my scarf until the wool scratches my jawline. “I don’t have a lot of free time right now.”

The lie tastes like cheap gum.

He nods, retreating to his office where the scent of bergamot tea leaks under the door.

I count seventeen steps to the elevators, each footfall echoing off concrete walls stained with decades of primer overspray.

Outside, December air razors through my coat.

I trace the mansion's route on my phone—seven blocks east past Georgian townhouses slowly vomiting Christmas decorations.

I could easily walk the entire way, but I’m not going to.

I hop on the bus and have a seat, immediately noticing a jasmine perfume that mingles with the metallic tang of wet umbrellas.

I scan the bus, noting quickly who the woman is that’s wearing it.

I sketch her profile in my mind—the way her earlobe disappears into auburn curls, the nervous tap of her patent leather pump against the floor.

“Park Lane,” the driver calls.

The mansion’s black iron gates loom between Doric columns.

Intercom cameras gleam like beetle eyes.

Francisco materializes as the gates swing inward, his gloved hands clasped behind a cashmere overcoat.

"Three hours tonight," he says, pressing four crisp bills into my palm.

The queen's face wrinkles under my thumb. "East drawing room first. The Vermeer needs particular attention."

Marble fountains stand dry in the courtyard, their basins filled with dead leaves.

My boots click too loudly in the entrance hall where a Baccarat chandelier drips crystal teardrops.

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